Breathe
by deanine
Summary: A surgeon learns the ABC's of life early on. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. Saving a life starts with giving a breath more often than not. One, two, three, four... Breathe.
1. Part I - Prologue

**Breathe**

**Author's note:**

It's almost always a mistake to write in present tense or first person. This fic willfully makes both mistakes. It should have two follow ups if I decide to write them. Also, there is quite a lot of dodgy pseudo-science in here. I'm no physicist/chemist/ecologist. There is a bit of faking, vague glossing over, with a dash of what I learned in chemistry a decade ago.

* * *

**Part 1 - Phytoplankton**

It all started with the phytoplankton. Ask any of the serious, stuffy fellows on the telly and that's where they will inevitably begin. Not that the beginning matters so much now. The phytoplankton died, the ocean died, and it's getting rather hard to breathe on planet Earth.

Clever monkeys that we are, we don't just accept the inevitable and wait for death when the oxygen starts to drop. It isn't that hard to manufacture oxygen. Any middle-schooler with a battery, some electrodes and some salt water, can do it. Achieving the efficiency of an ocean of photosynthesizing plankton, is another matter. We're still working on that.

My flatmate actually attacks the oxygen puzzle the day it hits the news about the plankton dying. The biologists and ecologist are talking about salvaging the situation, saving the fish and the whales and restarting the damaged ecosystem.

Sherlock gets that look in his eyes, that manically joyful expression that heralds a puzzle in progress. Neither an ecologist or a marine biologist, he is a gifted chemist. He storms off to Maplin and returns with five sacks of electronics. He sends me out to buy ten different types of salt. Within a week, he has the working prototype for an oxygen generating portable respirator.

He sends the plans to Mycroft without even being asked. It's almost five years before people really need them, but when they do, they're there.

It works beautifully, though the smell of chlorine keeps the air from ever feeling properly fresh. I'm not complaining, breathing is a luxury these days, and I'm thankful for each chlorinated lung full. I do miss walking down the street, a cool breeze on my face, the freedom to just roam without checking the respirator battery or water level or salinity.

When I see other people wearing their government-issue respirators, I'm unreasonably proud of Sherlock and the time he bought all of us with his cleverness.

If the restriction of the respirator bothers Sherlock, he doesn't much let on. Survival is a puzzle for him, and he works at it constantly when not distracted by a criminal case. We are the proud owners of a set of UV lights (courtesy of a friendly neighborhood pot-grower), four lovely bean stalks, two plum trees and a tomato vine. Considering that Sherlock had heretofore murdered every flower, vine or fichus that I brought home, his gardening skills surprise me at first.

His refusal to consider leaving London doesn't surprise me at all. Now that breathing has been solved, at least for the moment, the next crisis will be starvation. The animals, the insects, everything that respires is dead or dying. Crops are already failing to fruit without insects to pollinate.

Mycroft estimates that the shortages will become serious in six months, critical in a year. He tries to strong-arm his brother into leaving the city for a more secure location, but Sherlock won't entertain the thought of abandoning London. When Mycroft tells him that everyone in London will be starving in a year, Sherlock agrees and introduces him to their newly sprouted bean plants.

The elder Holmes laughs then, laughs until he cries. It isn't right, the British government crying like that, but it is the end of the world. Allowances can be made.

Mycroft sends us the potted tomato vine and the plum trees a week later.

I put my foot down when I find Sherlock pricing bee hives online. Sharing our flat with plants is one thing, stinging insects another entirely. Later I'll wish I hadn't stopped him. He would have found a way to make them fit into the tiny ecosystem he is building, and maybe he could have saved them, one hive of bees alive and pollinating the lonely bean plants behind our sofa. I envision Sherlock fitting the bees with their own tiny respirators. It's a passing fancy, but I wish I'd let him try.

Instead of bees, we pollinate our peas by hand, with painstaking care.

The surgery still opens six days a week and I still work part time. People still get colds and gout and an impressive number of patients are clinically depressed. Never in all my days, have I written so many prescriptions for Zoloft and Paxil and Wellbutrin. I wonder how long before the anti-anxiety drugs are in as short supply as oxygen.

Walking home, breathing my chlorinated air, I try to ignore the smell of death that lurks everywhere: cats, dogs, rats, birds. So many dead things in so many nooks and crannies, rotting away, releasing methane, hydrogen sulfide, and carbon dioxide. It would be nice if putrefaction released oxygen as a biproduct.

I know we should leave London before things get worse, before the decay is causing disease, before the people get so desperate and scared and stupid that they start destroying things, but Sherlock just won't leave and though there aren't any locks on the door keeping me here, I can't just leave him.

Mrs. Hudson's flat is silent. She long since relocated to her sister's home in the country. I hope she is safe, with plenty of food and that the air is a little sweeter where she is. Inside our flat, Sherlock is carefully tying the growing bean stalk onto the trellis he erected behind the sofa.

Mycroft couldn't convince him to leave. Now I have to try. Sherlock's eyes disappear behind the glare of his respirator's mask, and I feel ill equipped for the conversation. I open my mouth to argue a case for leaving, but the words don't come. The world is dying. Whether they die in a bolt hole with Mycroft, ten years down the road or in a year when London can no longer feed itself, doesn't really matter.

John just wants to spend that time with his friend.

"We're out of milk," Sherlock informs me without looking up from his project.

"The world is out of cows," I reply. "Or didn't you notice?"

"Quite right." Sherlock smiles and motions me over. "We have a bean pod."

I crouch next to him to admire our farming success, and smile for the first time in days. It's a stubby, immature pod that might one day produce three measly beans, but we made it together and I'm ridiculously proud as only a lifelong city dweller can be when faced with such a modest victory. "We should name it," I announce. "Poddy?"

Sherlock groans. "John, no, we mustn't become sentimental about the beans. We're going to eat the beans. Name something else, the vine perhaps?"

I open a bottle of wine and we name the entire garden together. Sherlock ends up choosing most of the names, composers and scientists, significant names. He lets me name the tomato though-Emily. When he asks me to justify my choice, I shake my head at him. "You named the beans and the plums, a bunch of names I'll be hard pressed to pronounce, much less remember. Emily is a pretty name for a pretty vine." I hold up two fingers. "Two syllables not fifteen."

He takes my wine glass, a frown on his face, deducing me. "Three syllables, John." He starts fiddling with my respirator. "The salinity is off. You're not getting enough oxygen. You have to check this every twelve hours. Do you want to suffocate?"

I'm far too sleepy to argue or defend myself. He carefully adds water until the balance is adequate, and snaps the reservoir lid shut with perhaps more force than necessary. I grimace, becoming more alert as the air flow increases. "Sorry, I checked it before work. Then you showed me our first beans, and the celebration distracted me."

Sherlock's frown darkens. "Get distracted from breathing too often, John, and you'll be very sorry. Or maybe you won't. It would be an easy exit. Quite a few people have chosen to get drunk and let their respirators fail. They just go to sleep, and never wake up."

"I'm not ready to check out. It was an honest mistake. Forgive me?" I ask.

Sherlock drops onto the sofa next to me and pulls his knees up to his chin. "Of course, just be more careful." He looks at me, the serious expression on his face, vaguely distorted by the plexiglass of his mask. "Do you want to go hide in Mycroft's bolt hole? If you really want to, we can go. We can take the plants with us. I know you've become attached."

"We would both hate it there," I reply. "I don't want to die hiding in a hole."

"We aren't going to die either place, John. Trust me. Survival is just another puzzle, another game. Do you trust me?"

Breathing the chlorine-smelling air and gazing at our small apartment garden, I believe him. And I'm fairly sure that hypoxia and drunkenness are only minor factors in that faith.


	2. Part II - Chapter 1

**Part 2 - Duplicity - Mycroft's Maneuver**

**Author's Note**: Past tense for this section and a change in perspective.

**Chapter One - If This Is Moving Up Then I'm Moving Out**

From their trusty kitchen table, Sherlock arranged his soil samples in order from most thriving plant to least. He checked pH, nutrient content, permeability, and drainage. He took notes on which variables needed adjustment and set about fixing them, using a mixture of commercial and homemade nutrient sources. Without taking the time to wear gloves he scooped up a carefully measured handful of circular white nitrogen granules. His skin prickled from the direct chemical contact, a physical reminder to add the fertilizer carefully. "Mustn't burn them," Sherlock informed the empty room as he gently worked the plant food into the tomatoes' pots.

A few years earlier, Sherlock would have classified all gardening knowledge, aside from the proper mix of fertilizer to make a bomb, as unimportant information worthy only of deletion from his precious hard drive. In the new great game, survival, gardening had earned its own wing in his mind palace. He had opened wings for alternative power sources and water purification. He had even made room for a small section on the psychology of survival, the better to keep John in the game and fighting.

Despite all logic, John had gone to work again today. Sherlock had argued that everyone was going to ground, that if anyone really needed a doctor they would find their way to a major hospital like St. Barts, not a tiny surgery. He argued that the streets were unsafe, that John risked leading some crazed looter home or getting his head bashed in. John had simply tucked his handgun into his pocket and waved resolutely on his way out the door.

The man was damnably stubborn, a positive personality trait in near-hopeless situations according to most psychological models.

His mobile beeped from its new solar docking station (the electricity was off more than it was on these days in London), and Sherlock abandoned his work to check it.

_Surgery burned down. Army regiment setting up ration distribution and emergency services nearby. Going to volunteer to help. -JW_

Sherlock scowled. Of course John would volunteer to help. An army regiment needed a forty-something with a bum shoulder to help them, as much as Sherlock needed a calculator to figure a square root. Though his efforts could generate enough good will to be exploited; an army regiment with rations might have some luxuries to share.

_If they have dehydrated milk, try to acquire as many cartons as you can. -SH _

_Will try. Don't get your hopes up. -JW_

It wasn't until much later, as the sun was sinking below the horizon that Sherlock texted again.

_Where are you? It's getting dark. -SH _

London had been under curfew for months now. Without consistent street lights, with law enforcement stretched past their capabilities, nights had become perilous. John knew better than to linger outdoors so close to sunset. With very limited deductive data, Sherlock mentally assembled speculations on John's tardiness and failure to text ahead. The possibilities were so varied as to be daunting for a lesser mind.

Most likely, John had spent longer working with the soldiers than was prudent and with electricity limited, his mobile was likely dead. Either he intended to stay with the regiment overnight or he would have the common sense to secure an escort home. Probably.

There were other less likely scenarios that couldn't statistically be ignored. He could have been mugged, attacked, injured. The regiment might have conscripted him in some forceful manner. Maybe he forgot to check the battery on his respirator and lay suffocating somewhere between home and Tesco's.

They were going to have to discuss John's casual disregard for his own well being and his callous rebellion against Sherlock's strategy to keep them both alive sometime soon.

His phone beeped, but not with a text from John.

_John has been diverted. It's time to come in. -MH_

"Mycroft," Sherlock hissed. Of course John wasn't late or not texting or dead. He was kidnapped.

_YOU! Stop kidnapping my friends! -SH_

_Friend. And no. -MH_

_Your offer of sanctuary has been considered and rejected. -SH_

_If you resist your escort they will use force to bring you in. -MH_

_They can try. -SH_

In the end, despite his bravado, Sherlock didn't resist the soldiers in their green fatigues. If Mycroft already had John, he needed to go in to fetch him. A struggle in the apartment would only potentially damage the garden.

Mycroft's safe haven presented no surprises, a concrete bunker, fortified and buried. Its interior was slick and clean and modern with a labyrinthine honeycomb of corridors, laboratories, and living spaces. For the first time in over a year, Sherlock was able to lift his respirator off and leave it off. Clean, breathable air that didn't even smell like a swimming pool slid over his face from regular air ducts in a luxurious flow.

Unable to help himself enjoying the freedom of breathing without a mask, Sherlock resolutely didn't show his pleasure, scowling at his escort and any unfortunate civilians they passed along the way.

Any thought that Mycroft might have given up his three piece suits for something more practical due to the crisis, was banished at first sight. His brother was a bit thinner, his hair a bit greyer, but he was otherwise unchanged. Mycroft leveled his patented, smarmy smile across the room, and Sherlock tried not to grind his teeth.

"I thought you gave us your blessing when you sent the plants. I thought you realized that I could make it work and keep us safe. Nothing has changed." Sherlock dropped himself into the nearest seat with a dramatic flourish of coattails. "Well?"

Mycroft sighed, his smile slowly disappearing. "I let you labor in that apartment in your delusion for as long as it was practical, but things are about to change and you need to be here where it's safe." He waved his hand at Sherlock's furious expression. " It's not that you can't work out the logistics, guaranteeing food and water and air. But do you really think your friend is going to stay in the apartment while people are dying and starving around him? John Watson is a survivor, but not that kind of survivor. How long will your oasis persist with the good doctor trying to save everyone that crosses his path?"

"John isn't stupid. He will do what needs to be done to survive," Sherlock sniped.

"How can you be so clever and simultaneously so ignorant of human nature? No, John Watson is not stupid. He is an honorable man, a good man, and he can't survive in the system you are constructing. He won't make the right choices," Mycroft explained.

"And you think your bolt hole will be better? I'll... we'll _suffocate_ here." Sherlock threw Mycroft a disgusted look. "Remember what it was like living under the same roof? You really want to go back to that?"

"Interesting choice of words, suffocate. How did you put it to Dr. Watson this morning when telling him not to go to work? Sacrifices must be made to ensure survival." Mycroft's smile returned and he gestured to the door. "I will do my best to give you your space. Your escort will leave you at your rooms."

Sherlock paused at the door. It could take days to escape and so much could be lost without anyone to manage the garden. "Would you send someone around to water the plants?" Sherlock asked in very nearly a polite tone.

"I can see to that, yes."

Sherlock let his guards herd him forward, keeping track of their turns absently, while most of his mind focused on what his brother had intimated. It rankled him that Mycroft pretended to know John so well, to know him better than Sherlock. Yes, John could be stubborn and predictably moral, but he knew when to forget social conventions and laws and just shoot the bad cabbies of the world. When the time came to lock the doors until the crisis had passed, John would accept the unavoidable losses outside and survive. Well, he was reasonably certain John would accept the need to lock down and wait. They would just have to discuss the situation prior to their escape. If Mycroft was correct, staying here might be their only viable option.

His rooms turned out to be a tiny space: bed, kitchenette, and miniscule en suite. It felt like a strange micro-hotel room, impersonal and far more claustrophobic than Baker street in a respirator had felt. Mycroft wanted him to live in a windowless room with taupe walls and a painting of a hayfield on the wall?

A very quick stroll around the room confirmed that he was alone. Sherlock tried the door, and finding it locked, pulled out his phone. A text was waiting for him. He must have missed the alert tone while arguing with his brother.

_Sherlock, I've been detained. Maybe conscripted is a better word? I'll be staying with the regiment for a few days. They need a doctor and theirs deserted. Will text again in the morning and they promised ten boxes of dehydrated milk. Turning off phone to conserve battery. -JW_

John wasn't here? When Mycroft texted that John had been diverted, he didn't mean to safety, he meant to service. Sherlock strode to the door and began prying at the seamless doorknob plate with his fingernails. Giving that up for a bad job quickly, he raked through the kitchen drawers from something to attack the locked door properly. "Mycroft, I know you're watching. Open this door or I'll murder you. I'll burn this ridiculous prison to the ground!"

Three hours later, the door remained locked, but Sherlock had broken every dish in the kitchenette, clogged the toilet, and dismantled the security camera over the door. He was contemplating exploding the microwave, when his phone chimed.

_I know what comes next, Sherlock. Don't make me cut your electricity. -MH_

He took one step toward the kitchenette and the power flickered off. A single emergency light glowed red from the ceiling. "Bastard."

He tapped rapidly at his phone, then threw himself onto the bed to contemplate his next move.

_I've been captured by Mycroft. Made an erroneous deduction. Thought you were already here. I'm locked in a tiny off-white room with no windows and a dull, red emergency light. May be insane by tomorrow, but by all means, do text. -SH _

John didn't text in the morning and he didn't call. Sherlock paced his prison, kicking the broken glass blindly in the near dark, determined not to eat or drink until someone opened the door. Mycroft would have guessed that move already. He wouldn't leave his baby brother to dehydrate and die, so there was an endgame, another play to be made.

Sherlock was not surprised when the magnets in the door clicked and released. The hall's light blinded him for several precious seconds, but he could make out the green fatigues of an army man and charged before his eyes had completely recovered. He had the man on the floor and a punch thrown, before it registered that there were more soldiers around them, watching but not interfering.

"Sherlock, Jesus! Are you trying to break my jaw?"

"John?" Sherlock asked, blinking his victim into clarity. "There you are. I was worried when you didn't text. You said you'd text." Like he was spring loaded, Sherlock rocked back to his feet. "Of course with what you're wearing it's obvious to see how I might confuse you with one of my jailors. Army fatigues? They're the height of conformity, John."

"Beggars can't be choosers, Sherlock, and I've seen worse jails." John ran a hand over his face, unencumbered by a mask for the first time in over a year. Red lines still traced the paths the mask had creased in his flesh, lines that would fade if given a chance. Sherlock helped him back to his feet with a steady hand. "The air here smells amazing."

"It's not Baker Street," Sherlock replied. "The air is a nice luxury though."

"Gentlemen, you have an appointment," the ranking soldier announced. "Best not to keep him waiting. It's his air you're breathing."

Sherlock scowled and considered requesting his respirator back so that Mycroft could keep his air, but John was obviously enjoying the freedom of not wearing a breathing apparatus, and if he were being completely honest, it was a bit nice. "Well, let's go see the puffed up gas bag. He can answer for his treachery properly."

Sherlock railed and sniped and goaded his brother but at the end of the day, he didn't return to Baker street. He accepted a lab and a room and let Mycroft win. By attaching John to the military unit guarding his bunker, Mycroft had efficiently solved the largest problem in Sherlock's own survival strategy. In this place, John had a role to play that would appease his need to help without leaving him too vulnerable to the deteriorating society around them.

Until a better solution presented itself, Mycroft's hospitality would have to do.


End file.
